The Curse: Third Installment

That night I woke suddenly, palms sweating and mouth parched. I ran my tongue over my lips in a feeble attempt to summon moisture, all the while trying to slow the heavy drumbeat in my chest. I grasped my husband's hand in the darkness, desperate for some tangible representation of reality. He shifted in his sleep, but his breathing remained steady and deep. The pounding in my chest slowly subsided as I attempted, futilely, to stop my mind from replaying the dream that had triggered my panicked awakening. I was again transported to the windowless room with block walls where the dream had taken place. The room was devoid of any furnishings, save a metal folding chair upon which I was sitting, hands folded, legs crossed. The florescent lights and smell of sterility evoked images of a government-sponsored facility: mental ward or prison. Perhaps, both. I was waiting—for what, I was unsure. The feeling of dread that overtook me as I was sitting on that chair escalated until I thought I could bear it no longer. A buzzing began, a million voices whispering together. I couldn't make out what they were saying, at first, but then they became louder and louder, whispering nightmares into my ear. The words overwhelmed me, like a giant wave, sucking me under until I could no longer distinguish between the truth and the lies.

Then, out of nowhere, Miku appeared before me. I was unable to discern where or how she entered the room, but, nevertheless, she was there before me. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and her arms were outstretched, as if she were giving a passionate plea on my behalf. Her mouth was moving, but I was unable to hear her over the shouting voices.

I shouted, “Help me, help me!” But she only continued speaking words that I was unable to hear over the roar of the voices. And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished, at which time I awakened.

Having replayed the nightmare, I released my husband's hand and silently padded down the hall to Jason's bedroom. His door was open, and I could hear the heavy whirring of the window fan. I crouched beside his bed, taking in his smell and resting my hand lightly on his dark hair. He smiled in his sleep, and I pulled his comforter up under his chin, tucking it around his small body. “Jason, I love you,” I whispered in the darkness before leaving the room.

The dream stayed with me, an ever-present feeling of dread lurking beneath the surface. One of those memories that, in my attempts to bury it, became all the more prominent. I tried not to think about it in a direct sense, but it was now ingrained as part of my psyche. I was not superstitious by nature, nor did I believe that dreams held any kind of special meaning, but I could not shake the sense of foreboding.

It was weeks before I saw Miku again. I knew that my attempts to avoid her were irrational, but, consciously or subconsciously, I stayed away from the places I was most likely to see her. One cannot avoid the grocery store forever, however, and it was there that Miku and I had our last impromptu conversation.

It seemed to me, looking back on that day, that there was a sense of gravity to our final encounter. But then again, maybe my recall of the conversation was tainted by information revealed later—it's hard to say. She crouched on his level and offered him a chocolate from her purse, which he took solemnly.

“What do you say Jason?” I prompted.

“Thank you,” he said shyly.

“Are you very happy today Jason?” Miku inquired.

He looked at the ground, scuffing his tennis shoe on the tile floor of the grocery store. The question seemed to confuse him. “I don't know,” he answered.

“Always remember that happiness is a gift,” Miku said. She rose then, and we exchanged perfunctory greetings before continuing our shopping. And that was the last time I saw Miku before the papers broke the story.

Of Dust

Sanctified but
Hypnotized by
My own eyes and
Pacified.

Pursuing desire
Wanting to go higher
Sinking into mire
Hand outstretched.

Race is ending
Outcome pending
Comprehending
Price was paid.

The Curse: Second Installment

Note: A huge thank you for the encouraging feedback!


After that, I saw Miku intermittently: at the bank, the hardware store, and the strawberry festival. Usually she was alone, but occasionally her husband accompanied her. He was a quiet man, balding and spectacled. They made an unusual pair: she, tall and elegant, with striking features; he, stocky, short, his moon shaped face unmemorable. She always greeted me with a wave, but he usually turned his head away—a gesture I attributed to shyness. His reticent demeanor seemed to have a dampening effect on her when she was in his presence; our short conversations were limited to the occasions she perused the supermarket offerings alone, or rode her bike solo in the park. When I had Jason in tow, she often seemed more eager to approach me. She crouched to his level to deliver a piece of chocolate or other treat she pulled from her purse.

Our conversations never ventured into topics any more serious than the latest community events. After a few attempts to draw out personal information, I gave up, for she was an expert at diverting the conversation away from herself. After a year of conversations held in passing, I knew little more about Miku than I did when we first met.

The August my son turned six was unbearably hot. New Hampshire is not known for its humidity, but the barometric pressure climbed to heights most weatherpersons had deemed impossible. Our neighborhood consisted primarily of older Victorian homes, very few of which had been outfitted with air conditioning. The sweltering heat drove harried mothers and babysitters in droves to the local pool. Most days, Jason and I unloaded the towels, lawn chairs, and pool toys from the minivan around noon, hoofing our way across the blacktop to join the throngs enjoying relief from the heat. I very rarely saw Miku in either of the two Olympic size bodies of water.

Occasionally, lounging in my lawn chair with a book, or chatting with another mother, I would glimpse her across the pool lawn. The first time I saw her in that setting, I failed to recognize her. A wide-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses covered most of her face, and the remaining portion was hidden behind a magazine. It wasn't until she lowered the magazine to watch a child cannonball off of the high dive that I realized it was her. She was alone, as was her habit, so I decided to approach her and offer my company. I gathered my suncreen, lawn chair, and reading materials, and flip-flopped my way across the lawn in her direction. I gave a cheery greeting as I approached, and she looked up, startled.

“Do you mind if I join you?” I inquired.

“No, no, please sit down.” She quickly hid her surprise and lowered the magazine. I opened my chair, careful not to step on an open cloth bag housing a file folder on the grass beside her.

“What a hot day,” I said, fanning my face with the paperback I had been reading and adjusting my sunglasses.

“Oh, yes. Supposedly it's going to break in a week or so.” She slid her magazine neatly into the cloth bag between our chairs, concealing my view of the folder. She then tucked the bag under her chair and kicked off her sandals. “Good day to be at the pool, though.”

“Jason has been enjoying himself—it's tough to get him out of the water!” I watched him bobbing in his tube at the shallow end, splashing with a friend. Even though the lifeguards watched vigilantly from their chairs, my eyes never left my son for more than a minute at a time. I had heard too many stories about children drowning to let down my guard while Jason was swimming.

A Short Exerpt from The Curse

Note: This is a short story I have been working on. The second installment will probably be posted at some point if I receive any interest in it. If not, then I haven't wasted any time, as the second installment has not been written. "Pragmatism" has a much nicer ring to it than "laziness."


They were talking about a waterless well in India on the radio this morning. No water in it, they said, but piled high with baby parts. The commentator described the pieces: skulls and ribs and femurs and spines, all stacked high in the well. It seems that a lot of people in India do not want girl babies. Being born a female is a curse. Hide them deep in the earth before anyone finds out it's a girl baby. I wonder who stumbled on the well. Was it a bright-eyed boy catching grasshoppers who happened across the uncovered grave? Did he wonder at first if it was a pile of animal bones? And then, kicking up the sand, running to his mother, crying out to come look at what was in the well, and what is it mother? She ambles over, laughing, wondering what her curious boy stumbled upon. The intake of breath, the gasp as her hands fly over her mouth when it settles over her, the macabre vision of those tiny wrist bones and arm bones and chest bones and toe bones all stacked down in the dusty, abandoned well.
Why is there such evil in the world? Who has taught us that boy babies are better then girl babies? A mother and a father must live out the rest of their lives never having loved and cared for their daughter. Every pink bonnet, every ballet slipper is a reminder of the void left from dropping their daughter into a dry, dry well. Something must shrivel inside after such an act. Death can dwell among the living. There are those whose weakness betrays them, those whose souls have been claimed by darkness. This is not a story about them. This is not a story about the weak, or the dark; this is a story about the victorious—the women who wrestle with the destructive powers and pin them to the ground. This is a story about triumph.

***
I met Miku at the park on a chilly Thursday morning. My son was swinging upside down on the monkey bars as I sat on the bench, wrapped in a warm parka, sipping my Starbucks. Miku was straddled atop a blue Schwinn, her dark eyes soaking in the children kicking up the fall leaves. Their air smelled of fall: wood fires and wet leaves. Eventually, she wheeled the Schwinn over to my bench. We smiled, the polite distant smile that strangers give.

“Which one is yours?” I inquired, assuming that she was there with a watchful eye on her child, just as I was.

She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Oh, none of them,” she replied. “No children, myself. How about you?”

“Over there,” I pointed. “Riding the tire swing.”

We sat chatting about the weather and the new library being built—those mundane things that you discuss with strangers.

“Well,” Miku announced, standing up and mounting her bicycle, “I better head off. Nice to meet you.”

I watched her ride off in the same direction I had walked. She was hunched over the handlebars, her dark pony tail blown about in the wind. I turned back to my son, wondering why I was left with a weighty sadness at her departure.

I did not give much thought to my brief encounter with Miku until the following day, when I saw her wheeling her bicycle across the road near the grocery store. I caught her eye and gave a little wave as I turned my minivan into the parking lot.

“How are you?” I greeted her as I stepped out of the van. “It's strange we never met before. It seems that we frequent the same places.” I bent over to lift my son out of his car seat. Miku smiled down at him.

“And what's you're name?” She asked him.

“Jason,” He replied, gazing at her curiously.

“What a good helper, Jason, to go with your Mommy shopping,” she said with a smile.

Inner Peace

“A life of peace, purity, and refinement leads to a calm and untroubled old age.” -Cicero.

Inner peace is one of life's enigmas: the more vigorously it is pursued, the more elusive it becomes. Many spend their entire lives chasing after the next experience or achievement they believe will grant them the gift of personal peace, only to be disappointed once the initial high wears off. So how does one harness this feeling, and what are the best ways to live a stress-free life? I believe that the answers to those questions are best explored by coming to an understanding of one's identity through a relationship with their Creator.

The demands of our lives increase exponentially with every new technological leap, bringing along with them the side effects of stress and worry. I find that if I would mentally give myself over to the nagging worries that plague me, I would spend most of my waking moments under a burden of self-doubt and fear. Did I say the right thing in the meeting? Will I be able to please my boss? Am I good enough, smart enough, funny enough? Whenever I feel myself slipping into an unhealthy thought patterns, I go back to some advice bestowed upon me: Tell yourself the truth. The truth is that I am valued by a Creator who thought that I was important enough to breathe life into and to place in this world. The truth is that He has an eternal purpose for my life. Whenever I am unable to see past the daily stresses and anxieties of my life, I can find rest by looking at myself through His eyes. Going back to these fundamental truths, seeing myself through the eyes of a loving God, gives me perspective and peace.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.” -Jesus

All attempts to achieve inner peace through outward means will be futile if the spiritual being, the inner core of one's soul, is neglected. The fascinating truth is that all of us were placed on this earth intentionally, and we are valuable to our Creator. No matter how busy and stressful my day is, no matter how insignificant I feel, meditating on this truth sustains me.

Dealing with the difficult (people, that is)

I would like to preface this by saying that I, myself, am never a difficult person. In fact, I am really not so opinionated that I would EVER try to convince you that I was right, nor would I argue my point of view. Of course not.

I talked to Beth the other night and asked her the secret to subtle manipulation. She thought maybe it had something to do with using phrases like "so what you're saying is...", and other mirroring methods. Sometimes I say phrases like this over and over again, hoping that the person on the other side will say to me: "What I'm saying is that you are so incredibly smart and your point of view is so valid that of course I will do exactly what you want me to do." The day that happens is the day I am buying a lottery ticket.

Sometimes it helps to use your fake voice. Stop pretending that you don't know what the fake voice is-- you've probably used it on me (don't think I can't tell!). But when you use the fake voice, that pleasant, patient, sweet tone that says "I have all day, please, go on telling me about your stamp collection, of course I want to hear", sometimes it actually helps. Sometimes the secret to dealing with difficult people is to smile on the inside so that you can smile on the outside. They never have to know exactly why you're smiling...just paste it on and hope for the best :)

Is it just me???

I feel like I should be writing one of those "top ten" columns. Like top 10 reasons you know you're a redneck, or whatever. This column should probably be entitled "top 10 indications that I'm getting old". I went to a new church this Sunday, one that is within walking distance of Grove City College. I'm not kidding, I think college freshman are now being admitted at the age of 16. I was surrounded by a sea of fashionably dressed midgets. And what is with the lack of independence? A third of the church is sitting empty, and there are probably 25 students crammed in directly behind me and "oh, we need to save seats for Susan, and Troy, and Doug." On one level it did make sense that they could cram into that row because they all seemed so...tiny. Most of the conversations I heard seemed to revolve around things that are not even worth putting into words. Was I ever that vapid??? Don't answer that. [As a side note: one indication that these were Grovers that we were dealing with here (and you Grovers know who you are) was that I heard an entire conversation detailing the grammatical errors in the bulletin. ] So, I walked out feeling a little...old. But, as I watched all of those freshman trudging back to campus in the rain, I felt very thankful for my car, my house, no homework, and best of all, a life outside of the bubble.